


In Sight

by myystic (neoinean)



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Gen, Spies, The Yuletide Con, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/myystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona likes to keep Michael in sight...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).



It's a bright and beautiful day in brighter, less-beautiful Miami. Just past noon, the city is covered in flash and glare and _glitter-sparkle_, nary a cloud in the sky. The subtle breeze blowing in off the water plays with myriad flags lining the streets of Little Havana and dances through her palm trees, angling their leaves into the burgeoning shadows and dropping the temperature from horrific to only merely unbearable. The lunchtime rush is in full swing and the streets are thronged with people, locals and tourists and local-tourists, snapping photos and eating ice cream, hailing cabs and slipping into and out of shops, restaurants, and the odd business locale.

And right in the center of the SW22 -- Court, not Avenue, and that's rather an important distinction to make -- facing into Bryan Park and the congregation of mothers-with-toddlers and arseholes-not-cleaning-up-after-their-dogs -- is Michael Westen. Decked out in faded khakis and a white button-down (opened to the second button), pretentious sunglasses and a truly grotesque faux-Rolex, the man looks like he stumbled off the set of that idiot crime drama that's supposed to take place down here but in reality lives out on the other coast, where admittedly Michael would look just as ridiculous but would stand a better chance of being mistaken for a washed up actor than he does here in Miami, where he looks more like a bored yuppie trying to flaunt everything he was allowed to keep after the second divorce.

Though she's not sure, Fiona thinks his actual cover is poised somewhere awkwardly between the two, but needs must and all of that. And in this light and lazy sunshiny day of few shadows and only a mild, consistent breeze, Fiona has no trouble keeping the man comfortably in sight.

Through a Leupold scope.

Across the four hundred odd meters of Bryan Park and its adjacent roadways.

It's only a moment's indulgence, because for all the hilarity of Michael's getup (and the tantalizing peak at that taut, tan chest), she knows she should instead be keeping her sight firmly fixed on the bastard weasel that Michael's supposedly meeting with, on the dickless little SOB that managed to convince Michael to come alone.

This time it was Sam who'd objected, loudly and through an increasingly impressive vocabulary, and for her part she'd called him a right idiot and announced that if he intended to be stupid and waltz right into a likely trap then _she_ intended to get horribly drunk, sleep with Nate for kicks and spite, and get an early start on the obituary. Thus it was Sam who'd talked his way into driving the car, putting himself close enough to ease whatever passed for a conscience with him but still much too far away to be of any real help should things go down as Michael probably deserved -- while Fiona simply put on an impressive sulk until she heard them drive away, then spent the ten minutes it took to clean and prep her M85 being very, very grateful that he hadn't yet found the tracker she'd stuck up his tailpipe.

One of these days he just might get what she means when she tells him he's got a bug up his arse, but until that day arrives she'll be ready and willing to _cover_ said arse, especially since Michael seems hellbent on leaving it hanging wide open.

If she doesn't just decide to _shoot him in it_ first, simply as an object lesson.

Thankfully for Michael, neither of those things will happen today. Besides the fact that he's actually facing towards her at the moment, he's also surrounded by too many men packing too many guns for any possible lessons to need any type of assistance from her. No, if she shoots anyone today, it will be to spread what might pass for brains in that overdressed goon squad all over the sidewalk. Tempting, but Michael wouldn't thank her if she jumped the gun, so to speak.

Hell, he probably wouldn't thank her if those mangy arseholes shot first and her swift and deadly sniping just kept him from being sent home to Madeline so full of holes that he wouldn't hold water.

Sometimes she wonders if avenging him might just be a fair sight more satisfying than saving him, but that's not the most helpful of thoughts right now.

Right now she thinks the wind's out of the southeast, maybe five kph if that. She thinks its an easy shot, any one of the five she's contemplating. She thinks the bastard just left of center, white suit jacket (not-hiding a shoulder holster) and an ill-fitting fedora, is likely the most dangerous. She thinks she could put one through the base of his skull -- knows she'll pull the trigger if the man so much as _twitches_ in a passably threatening manner -- and then shift right to drop the snappy dresser in the custom-tailored Devore, the spineless little worm that Michael is attempting to reason with.

Her lip-reading is a bit rusty, but she thinks he might actually be succeeding.

Well, wonders never cease.

Though that's not exactly fair. If Michael couldn't talk himself out of at least some of the shit that he manages to walk brazenly into then he would have gotten his arse handed to him long ago (and with a few other sundry body parts shipped back to his supposed handlers, overnight express), but his luck can't hold forever.

That's okay though. Only the good are lucky.

The best have someone willing to lay prone on a sweltering rooftop under the relentless Miami noonday sun, armed and pissed off and very, very dangerous. And to the badguys, even.

And Michael has always been good. Whether or not he's the best though...

Fiona smirks.

A lady never tells.

-_fin_-


End file.
